Wind

the wind cuts, dry like fresh snow, hexagonal edges
slice across the softness of the skin on my face,
the rest protected behind space-age technology fabrics
and reindeer hide, thank you, Iceland.
a yellow crocus crouches, open, behind an irrigation hose,
how can one describe bravado and cautiousness in one flower,
she does it, every February when the wind cuts across
my face and I wish for Spring.